


Speed Demon

by ssunrise



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 04:10:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssunrise/pseuds/ssunrise
Summary: In which vacations are taken and fears are faced.





	Speed Demon

The vacation had been Aziraphale’s idea.    
  
“I’ve been thinking,” he began casually, looking up from his book. He hadn’t actually been reading for the last few minutes, but rather planning his words. Crowley, sprawled sideways across an sun-warmed armchair in the bookshop’s back room, slowly opened a golden eye. “Oh no,” he teased.    
  
“Oh, stop it, it’s nothing bad.”   
  
“Good. You’ve been worrying too much.”   
  
“I think I rather had a right to, what with the apocalypse and all,” the angel huffed. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been cooped up in London for over a decade now. Our, er, responsibilities have been fulfilled here. Maybe it’s time for a change. Not a long one. Just, you know, a vacation. Like humans do. It’s supposed to be very relaxing.”   
  
Crowley opened his other eye and propped his head up with one hand. “Sure,” he said. “Where?”   
  
“Wherever you’d like, my dear. We have all the time in the world now, so you can’t choose wrong.”   
  
Crowley hummed softly in agreement, his eyes drifting closed again. “Let me think about it.”   
  
~   
  
Aziraphale’s face is squished against the window like a small child on their first plane flight. He’s enraptured by the sight of their familiar little piece of the world growing smaller as they rise. Not that he hasn’t flown before - he has wings, of course, but he doesn’t use them often - too many people to miracle into forgetting. This time, he’s admiring humanity’s scientific brilliance as well as the view.    
  
“Crowley, dear, are you seeing thi- oh! What’s wrong?”   
  
Crowley’s hands are white-knuckled on the armrests. His breath hisses softly through clenched teeth. Aziraphale wraps his soft hands around Crowley’s.   
  
“Crowley, is-“   
  
“It’sss fine.”   
  
“No, it’s obviously no-“   
  
“I’m fine, I sssaid,” comes the retort. In truth, Crowley himself doesn’t know yet what’s going on.   
  
A small, noxious flower called fear has bloomed in his mind, its suffocating perfume quickly clouding every other thought. You see, Crowley insists that he “sauntered vaguely downwards.” However, this is less absolute truth and more an idea that Crowley has insisted on so repetitively that no one questions it anymore, not even himself. He has crafted his reputation quite carefully. He has almost successfully repressed the memory of the times when he lost control of his speed during that descent, when judgement pulled the ground from beneath his feet and he could no longer hesitate.   
  
In the Bentley it’s not the same. In the Bentley he’s in control. The ground is solid and the speed’s his choice. Besides, there’s no danger that compares to what he’s already suffered. Discorporation is annoying, sure, too much paperwork, but the pain doesn’t compare in the slightest.    
  
This airplane, though, is far from under Crowley’s control. His brain’s too strangled by fear to manage any miracles and besides, his power would never stand a chance if divine judgement decided to send him hurtling out of the sky again. So as the plane rises, Crowley’s breath gets quicker as his brain convinces him that every meter risen is a meter further to fall. His blood runs cold.   
  
Well, almost. As if from a deep sleep, Crowley is pulled slowly out of the jaws of his fear. The warmth begins in his hand. It takes a few minutes to register, but Crowley finally realizes that Aziraphale is cradling his hand. From there, the warmth spreads up his arm, curling slowly around his heart and then blossoming outward. Slowly but steadily, Aziraphale’s warmth pushes out Crowley’s fear, leaving a serene calm in its place.   
  
Crowley’s breathing slows, and Aziraphale gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. As his fear dissipates, all of Crowley’s energy seems to go with it. He slumps forward in his seat.    
  
“Hey,” Aziraphale says softly. He tugs Crowley’s sleeve. Confused golden eyes blink back at him from over the sunglasses which have slipped down Crowley’s nose. Aziraphale glances meaningfully at his shoulder. “Here,” he prompts. Crowley nestles his head gently in the soft corner between Aziraphale’s shoulder and neck. Not even five minutes later, he’s fast asleep. He’s got nothing to fear. He’s got a guardian angel, after all.


End file.
